


Choose

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Ficlet, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank doesn’t accept Connor’s repossession.
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 115





	Choose

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Chloe doesn’t say a word to him—Hank doesn’t know if that’s just because there’s nothing in her programming, or if she doesn’t remember him—the way he tried to keep Connor from shooting her in the head, and he won out over her own master insisting Connor do it. She leads him through the sprawling house through a series of artistically barren rooms until they reach what looks like an office, a wall of books on one side and a window overlooking a synthetic arboretum on the other. It’s showy and ostentatious—Hank doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the man at the desk either. He was never very fond of Elijah Kamski, and meeting him in person didn’t change that. 

Kamski looks up from his tablet as Chloe wanders aimlessly away. There’s no seat for Hank to take, so he just stands there, while Kamski drawls, “Lieutenant Anderson. What a surprise.” Except he doesn’t sound surprised at all.

Hank entertains the idea of just thrusting a bunch of cash on the table, getting what he wants, and going, but he knows there’s not enough money in his whole account to pique Kamski’s interest. His whole _life_ is probably worth less than the painting in the foyer. Hank grunts anyway, “I want Connor.”

“Connor,” Kamski dryly repeats. “You mean the latest android CyberLife recalled? The one that failed its joint mission with the police force?”

“CyberLife says you have him.”

“Of course. I still have rights to all the decommissioned androids.”

The word _decommissioned_ echoes through Hank’s head, sick and horrifying: he doesn’t know what it means exactly, but he can’t stop picturing Connor’s lifeless body in a dump somewhere. Hank grits out: “I want him. I’ll pay however much you want.” It’ll probably be way _too_ much, but Hank will find a way. He’ll make whatever bets he has to. He’ll _kill_ whoever he has to. He just needs Connor back. He should never have let the FBI drag Connor out of the office in the first place. 

Kamski’s lips curl up at the end: an extremely unsettling smirk. He doesn’t refuse Hank’s offer, but instead asks, “Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which RK800 model do you want? There have been several over the years. CyberLife rebuilds from scratch and imports data every time one’s compromised, but I get the broken shells to play with. I repair them on my own. They’re with my own personal RK900 now—an upgraded version.”

Hank doesn’t know how to answer that. He wants _Connor_. _His_ Connor. But he doesn’t even know Connor’s serial number. He should’ve memorized the damn thing. Kamski sees his hesitation and pushes back from the desk, standing up.

Kamski strolls around it and walks towards a thin metal door at the back—Hank instantly follows. 

He’s guided into a small sliver of a room, dark and featureless, not unlike the compartment behind the two-way-mirror room they use at the station for questioning. An entire wall is taken up with a black screen, but Kamski taps a panel on the side, and suddenly, it’s sheer: a wall of glass. 

On the other side, a dozen Connors are lounging around a padded white room, all stripped naked but still made up like humans: anatomically accurate right down to their toes. Hank can feel his face catching fire. The Connors all have the exact same body type that Hank is used to, except for a slightly larger one in the middle—one with a knowing smirk across his handsome face and a cruelness in his dark eyes. His chest is a little broader, his muscles a little more pronounced, and his body is unmarred, where all the others are littered with the pink bruises of finger and teeth marks. The other Connors are all bent around him, clearly trying to reach him, to _please_ him. He’s got one on all fours beneath him that he’s steadily thrusting into while several others kiss his thighs, lick his nipples, and compete for the attention of his hands. He strokes, pets, and pulls them to him, occasionally leaning over to scratch or bite into one of them. They’re all slick with a milky white substance that looks suspiciously like _cum_ , even though Hank knows they’re all androids and shouldn’t have anything to discharge. 

He can’t seem to tear himself away from the view, but he can feel Kamski standing so casually at his side, utterly unaffected, like this is just another terrarium for him to idly watch in between paperwork. 

“The Connor series is a particularly attractive one, don’t you think?” Kamski asks, as though Hank could possibly disagree. He can’t stop watching their gorgeous bodies writhing and grinding against one another, holes stretched open and dripping seed, cocks hard and leaking precum. Instantly, Hank finds himself ridiculously turned on, but at the same time, he _hates_ seeing Connor used like that, because the Connor he knew was so much more than someone’s sex doll. Kamski chuckles, “It’s particularly resistant to deviancy, and yet, incredibly dedicated to its mission. Once you make its mission your own entertainment, well... you can see the results for yourself.”

Hank can, and he can’t believe it. Connor was so determined, so _intelligent_ , but the Connors on the other side of the glass look exactly like him, just flushed with lust and eager to serve. They pleasure what must be the RK900 without hesitation. Some wear a few accessories that show what fun they’ve had—a collar here, a leash there, a set of handcuffs and a muzzle on the one in the corner. Hank suddenly fixates on that one, noticing the lack of luster in its brown eyes. It’s the only that’s not pawing for the RK900, though it’s just as drenched in cum and bruises. 

Kamski says, “Tell you what, Lieutenant... if you can pick the one that’s yours, you can have it, free of charge.” 

Hank’s fists clench at his sides, but he knows better than to use them. A gift was what he needed—he just hates the way it’s happening. He asks, “Can I talk to them?”

“No,” Kamski snorts. “That wouldn’t be any fun.”

If possible, Hank hates him even more. It’s a cruel game to play with a man’s life, and he’s now convinced that androids can be _alive_ , even if the models behind the glass are acting like mindless sex toys. He skims over each of them, watching their inflections, but there’s nothing there save the same put-on mannerisms of a porn star. They mewl, moan, squirm, touch, kiss, lick—nothing he knows Connor for.

Finally, Hank nods towards the one in the corner and tries, “Why is that one muzzled?”

Kamski presses a button down on the panel and asks, “RK900: why did you muzzle the one in the back?”

The bolder Connor lazily answers from the other side, _“It seems to have picked up some sass somewhere along the line. It wasn’t listening. I suggest a full memory wipe.”_

Kamski’s hand falls away, and Hank barks, “That one’s mine.”

Kamski glances at him. “I certainly hope so, because I don’t do refunds.”

Hank resists the urge to punch him. Instead, Hank follows Kamski through another door and out into the padded room, where he’s allowed to collect his Connor off the floor and take the poor thing home.


End file.
